


What

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Kid Fic, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-13 21:08:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11768418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Erestor only understands children to a point.





	What

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So lately I’ve been digitally scanning my mother’s old family albums for her, and I found amongst the photographs the most atrociously spelled and ridiculous note I’ve ever seen. It was from, apparently, very-small-child me about my baby sister. So anyway, as weird as this vignette is... it’s somehow based on a true story. (And no I don’t remember writing it or why at all.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or The Silmarillion or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Erestor is late for their dinner, but that’s nothing new, not now that the twins have been born, and they take up more of the chief councilor’s time than work ever did. Glorfindel understands, and he enjoys the two tiny trouble-makes so much that he never begrudges them for stealing his Erestor away. Instead, he goes to fetch Erestor himself, imagining that on a warm evening like this, they’ll be out in the gardens. He knows he’s wrong when emerging from the house reveals none of the telltale shouts that always accompany them—they’re rambunctious little creatures, more so than any children Glorfindel’s ever known before. He’s irrevocably fond of them anyway, and he can’t wait until the day when they’re old enough for him to train with a sword.

For now, they’re too undisciplined, barely big enough to hold a stick of any size, let alone anything of steel. By the time Glorfindel reaches Erestor’s favourite courtyard, he half expects to find them both asleep. Instead, Erestor is alone, perched on a stone bench and peering at a scrap of parchment. He looks deep in thought, which is not an uncommon look for his handsome features. 

Even though it’s likely some order of work that Glorfindel would find a bore, he asks as he approaches, “What is it?” 

Erestor lets out a weary sigh. He doesn’t spare Glorfindel a second look, so entranced with the note as he is. He shakes his head, maybe just to himself, then answers, “A message from Elladan. It is addressed to Lord Elrond—or at least, I assume that when he wrote ‘Adda,’ that is what he meant; he is, of course, not yet fully adept in his letters.”

“Ah.” Glorfindel can feel himself grinning, sensing a pint-sized conspiracy, and he chuckles, “Are you to deliver it, then? Has he learned already that he is a prince fit to command you? Or perhaps it is a goodbye note, and he means to run away, hoping it will not reach Lord Elrond’s hands until too late.”

“Nothing of the sort,” Erestor snorts. “It is actually far sillier than that, although... I cannot for the life of me decipher _why_ he wrote such a thing in the first place.”

Glorfindel doesn’t understand, until Erestor wordlessly passes over the parchment. Glorfindel takes it in one gloved hand, careful with the delicate scrap. It was clearly torn from a larger piece, and the writing on it is smeared and bears many ink stains. The script is large, blocky, uneven and difficult to read, especially given how poorly it’s spelled. But Glorfindel manages to garner the meaning anyway:

_Adda, i saw Elroheer kisSin his toi hors behinD the big tre!_

It continues on with three other lines, which vaguely rhyme. Glorfindel reads it over a second time.

And then he tosses back his head to laugh. He has to shake his head and wipe a tear from the corner of his eye before he returns his attention to Erestor. The message is so thoroughly _ridiculous_ that at first he doesn’t see Erestor’s confusion—he’s busy swooning at how adorable its many failings are. It takes him a minute to choke out, “You are right, that is most odd.”

“But _why_?” Erestor presses, now looking genuinely puzzled. “It is surely a lie, and yet even if it were not, it would not mean anything. Children often coddle their toys. Why did he write this, and why did he slip it into my hand?”

“Because he _is_ a child,” Glorfindel snorts. “One that is not yet capable of proper thought. Perhaps he was merely trying to get his brother in trouble, as many siblings do.”

“But he loves his brother,” Erestor counters.

“Then perhaps he did see it, and it seemed like something his father really ought to know.”

“I still cannot imagine why, and either way, why give it to _me_?”

“You are Lord Elrond’s chief councilor,” Glorfindel muses. “It would only be right for you to brief him on matters of the realm.”

Erestor reaches to take the note back. He scans it over another time, then sighs, “I will have to study Elladan further.”

Glorfindel starts, “Erestor...” but stops himself when he realizes there’s no point. Clearly, Erestor can’t remember a time when he was ever anything less than logical, and it baffles him that anyone, even children, could be so purposeless as they are. Glorfindel can’t help but think that had Erestor ever known him in his youth, he would’ve driven the poor councilor mad.

He settles instead for asking, “Dinner?”

And Erestor rises, sighing, “After I deliver this—and pray that Lord Elrond proves, once again, the wisest of us all.”


End file.
